


Fucked

by hearteating



Category: Always Crashing in the Same Car (2007)
Genre: Bad Ending, Humiliation, M/M, Sex Toys, Sexual Coercion, Shame, Supernatural Elements, Timeline Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearteating/pseuds/hearteating
Summary: When Jim finds himself in an impossible situation, Bill offers him a way out.It might have been better if Jim hadn't accepted.





	Fucked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



> I was interested in your demon prompts, and this fell out. Happy Smut Swap!
> 
> (apparently I forgot to include the subplot resolution, such as it is- updated now)

Everything had gone to shit. Jim was still reeling. It had all happened so fucking fast. Ten weeks ago he'd starting hearing about some group of loonies who thought they could bring about world fucking peace by blowing everyone up and starting over, and now. 

Now people were dead. He'd seen the Foreign Minister die from an arrow through the neck. A fucking arrow, like it was the Middle Ages, because that was the sort of psychos they were dealing with. Jim's security team had managed to get him to safety, thank Christ, but now he was hiding in a safe house with nothing but his own imagination. Were those screams he heard, or was he just remembering the awful chaos at Parliament?

The phone rang. Jim jumped- the power was out, so how the hell was that happening? It rang again, and he picked it up.

“Hello?” He tried to sound strong, confident. He didn't think he succeeded.

“Hello, Jim.” 

He knew that voice.

“Bill, you fucker, how the hell did you get this number? How are you even calling me?” Of all the people in the world Jim wanted to talk to, Bill was the last one he'd pick.

“Tell me, Jimbo, what would you do if I told you I could make all this, everything that happened today, go away?” Bill's voice was cool and dry as snakeskin. With everything as fucked up as it was, Jim focused on that. Of course Bill could make it all go away. That was what he did. He was a nasty little prick, but he had a talent for making difficulties disappear.

Jim thought about the explosions at the power plants, knocking out power across south England. All the deaths that would happen or had happened. He thought about all the signs he'd dismissed that maybe the nutters threatening to hit the reset button weren't as harmless as he thought. He thought about the look on the Foreign Minister's face as he choked on his own blood, right before Jim's security team got there.

He breathed in, shakily. Was that smoke he smelled?

“Anything.”

* * *

Jim woke with a start. His heart pounded and the sheets stuck sweatily to his skin. 

A bad dream? It had felt so real, but here he was, in his bed, his wife snoring gently beside him. He rubbed his face. The stress of being Prime Minister must be getting to him. 

Jim spent the rest of the morning with the strongest feeling of deja vu he'd ever encountered. He found himself answering questions he'd only half listened to, and answering them correctly, or correctly enough. Although several issues raised in his morning meetings were brand new, he could have sworn he'd heard them before. Which was impossible, of course. That nightmare must have unsettled him more than he'd thought.

It was after lunch he was given word of a protest planned for the following day. Nothing to worry about, he was assured. Just some eco-nutters who thought the world needed to go back to the Stone Age. The only reason it was even mentioned was the police had received some information that the leaders might have access to bomb-making materials, and they had to take things like that seriously.

Jim went cold. 

“I didn't think cavemen had bombs,” someone laughed.

This was how it started in his dream. The whole bloody clusterfuck. But here it was, happening again. He felt sick. Standing, he mumbled an excuse and fled the room.

Jim didn't have any idea where he wanted to go, just that he couldn't smile and laugh with the others, knowing what would come next. He walked blindly down the hall, thinking maybe he should go outside, get some air.

“Jim, a word?” Oh fuck. Bill. The last person Jim wanted to talk to on a good day, let alone a day his head was playing tricks.

“Not now, Bill, sorry.” He went to move past him, but Bill grabbed his arm.

“It's really quite important, Jim. I'm afraid I must insist.” His grip and voice were equally firm, and Jim allowed himself to be steered into the nearest empty office with only minimal fuss.

“What is it, Bill?” he asked, the moment the door was closed. “What's so fucking important you had to drag me here?”

Bill raised an eyebrow.

“I expected a bit more gratitude after the favor I did you.”

Jim laughed, hysteria edging into his voice. After everything today, the idea of Bill doing him a favor was apparently a step too far.

“What fucking favor is that, Bill? I can't remember you doing anything more than make my life miserable.”

Bill fixed him with a look, and the room was filled with the sound of panicked sobs.

“Tell me, Jimbo, what would you do if I told you I could make all this, everything that happened today, go away?” Bill's voice cut through the sobs, cool as anything.

A pause, and then.

“ _Anything_ ,” came Jim's answer, desperate and terrified.

Bill, the Bill in front of Jim, smiled, and sound cut off.

“ _That_ favor,” he said. “All your mess has been cleaned up; you have the chance to fix everything now. I think that calls for a little gratitude.”

“How?” Jim gaped. He could feel the pieces of everything in his mind, but they wouldn't quite fit together. “What was that?”

Bill sighed. The universe flickered, and for a moment Bill was the only real thing in it. His eyes were dark, nearly black, and an unearthly light flickered behind them. Everything else was faded and flat, like a photo of an old Doctor Who set.

Then he was just Bill again, human and cold. There was the faint smell of smoke hanging in the air.

"What the fuck was that?" Jim collapsed against the desk, trembling. It was a wonder he hadn't pissed himself.

“As much of an answer as you'll ever get,” said Bill. He looked Jim over, his lip curling in disgust. “Pull yourself together. You're embarrassing yourself.” Jim sputtered, and Bill continued. “Now, I've given you 73 days to clear up this mess. In return, you'll give me an hour every day to do as I please.”

“What? That's out of the question,” Jim replied, rallying again. “Do you know how busy I am, Bill? I barely have time to piss some days.”

Bill pursed his lips.

“Make time.” His voice was hard. “You promised me anything, Jim, and this is my price. If you break that promise, I'll send you right back to where you were, you miserable cunt.”

Jim was so tense he was shaking. This whole situation was bullshit, and yet. He knew Bill was telling the truth. He thought about his cabinet dying in front of him, about what would happen if he found himself back in that hell. The fight went out of him.

“Kneel,” said Bill. 

Jim knelt in front on him, squeezing his eyes closed. He didn't want to see what was going to happen, didn't want to see the bulge in Bill's trousers or what came after. The ground was hard under his knees and he knew they'd be giving him hell the rest of the day. He heard the sound of a zipper and flinched, expecting to feel the press of Bill's cock against his mouth.

“Really, Jim,” Bill admonished. “As if I'd trust you to suck it properly.” Jim flinched again and Bill laughed. There was the sound of skin on skin-- Bill was wanking, right in front of him. Jim knelt, eyes shut, and listened as the sound grew slicker and Bill's breathing quickened. He could smell Bill's arousal, sharp and musky. Eyes closed, Jim didn't know how long it went on, only that it seemed an interminable amount of time.

Finally, here was a sharp intake of breath, and then Bill's spunk splashed against Jim's face, getting into his hair and dripping down the inside of his collar. Disgust roiled through him, and Bill laughed.

* * *

It wasn't always sex. Jim wasn't sure whether or not to be grateful for that. The sex was humiliating and horrible, but he hated not being able to predict what would happen during the hour of hell Bill had locked him into. Sometimes Bill would make him crawl, lick his shoes, list the ways Bill was superior in every way. Sometimes it was sex. Sometimes Bill would lay out a list of proposed policies, ones that Jim would never side with ordinarily, and smile as Jim read them through and promised to back them. Once, he stood behind Jim and whispered horrible things other people had said about him, mimicking their voices perfectly. The actions never seemed to matter to Bill as much as the simple fact of making Jim miserable, disgusted, ashamed. 

Jim wondered if Bill fed on those feelings. He wasn't stupid, despite what Bill thought- he saw the look on Bill's face whenever a particularly self-loathing thought crossed his mind. Bill wasn't a person, he was a fucking thing, who knew what he really wanted. Why the fuck was he even here in London? He'd probably engineered this whole shitpile of events.

He'd tried asking that, once.

“All of this shit is your doing, isn't it? Fucking up my life for your sick pleasure.”

“Honestly, Jim,” said Bill, condescension dripping from every syllable. “I hardly think you need my help to make terrible choices. If you're looking for someone to blame, don't bother looking beyond your own nose.”

* * *

Between his daily “meetings” with Bill, Jim threw himself into fixing what problems he could remember from before. He managed to save his favorite mug from breaking, which was nice. And of course, he focused on the Swailers, as the bastards called themselves. He made some grand speech about how even noble ideals could become twisted, talking out of his arse, that actually managed to rally some of the opposition, as well as some of his own side. After multiple recommendations and phone calls and endless rounds of paperwork, a team was put together to monitor the group and ready for an arrest. Couldn't happen soon enough, in Jim's opinion.

* * *

Bill hardly ever took his arse. Jim was grateful for that; it was painful and humiliating and he always felt sore for the next day or so.

Today, though, Bill had decided to fuck him. Jim bent forward awkwardly over his desk, weight on his forearms, and waited for it to be over. Bill's long cock moved steadily inside him, back and forth, hot where it stretched him around it. Jim sighed, slumping a little further down.

That was a mistake. On the next thrust, a little electric thrill jolted down Jim's spine. Bill pulled back, and his cock dragged against that place again. This time, the feeling went to Jim's cock. Without thinking, he clenched around Bill, wanting that jolt again. And then he remembered who Bill was, what this was, and he went cold with shame.

“Oh,” Bill said behind him. “That's interesting.” He pressed forward again, making Jim gasp as his cock stiffened in response.

He began fucking Jim again, making sure to hit the same spot with every stroke. Warmth built up in Jim's belly, spreading through his cock, his chest, his thighs. He was on fire. He whimpered, and Bill laughed. The feeling plateaued, a soaring moment of almost-too-much, and then Bill reached around to squeeze Jim's cock, and it was over. He came, sobbing, and slumped onto the desk. Bill pulled out and finished on Jim's back as Jim cried, furious and ashamed.

* * *

Getting Jim off became another tool for Bill, one that Jim dreaded more than anything. The sessions left him feeling filthy and full of self-loathing, moreso than the ones where Bill used him like a doll. And the worse he felt, the more effort Bill seemed to put into getting Jim off, so that he couldn't even feel shame without being reminded of pleasure. 

It seeped into the rest of his life. He'd never been the calmest of fellows, but now anger was a constant presence, and he'd often lash out without warning. His party was worried about him, he could tell, but he was doing his fucking job, so they didn't do a damn thing. Better to hold on to power with a bastard of a PM than give it up. He veered between vindictively shooting down even the most practical of Bill's ideas and caving in without even a token fight. Bill didn't like it when he fought back; he always made things worse for Jim when he did, but it was something, at least, that Jim had control over.

Mary was worried about him, too. That was harder to deal with. Several days after that first wretched orgasm from Bill, Jim and Mary tried to make love. Jim couldn't get it up, couldn't stop thinking about Bill's awful smile and skinny hands, and Mary's assurances it was fine, he was just stressed, they could cuddle, only upset him further. He mumbled something about going to the office and sat in his car, cursing Bill with every breath.

* * *

Bill pushed something cool and firm into Jim. Jim winced, and then jumped as Bill pressed a button and the something began to vibrate. At first it mostly just felt odd, but as the vibrations continued, pressure and warmth began to build up, spreading through Jim's cock, his arse, his thighs and stomach and back. The feeling grew, and grew, until Jim's vision went gray and he found himself shaking and trembling almost painfully. He felt like he'd come, but his cock was still hard and sensitive.

The vibrations didn't stop. He was vaguely aware that he was making the most terrible noises, moans and grunts, but he couldn't work up the energy to feel ashamed. Knees trembling, Jim slumped to the ground and turned his head. Bill sat in a chair, hands steepled together. He was hard in his trousers, his mouth open, but his eyes were cold. _Christ_ , Jim realized as the tension began building again, more painfully this time, this was going to go on the entire hour.

After the third orgasm, drenched in sweat and muscles screaming, Jim grit his teeth and forced himself to crawl over to Bill. He was still in his suit, and the feeling of damp, clinging fabric on his skin was agonizing. He was nothing but feeling; his brain was leaking out of his ears.

“Please,” he begged, his voice raw and slurred, “no more, Bill.”

“You want this to stop?”

Jim nodded with a whimper, his face wet with tears and snot. The vibrator kept going, and he spasmed and cried out. It hurt. It was wonderful. He'd never felt anything like this and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to again. “Please, Bill.”

Bill leaned forward.

“No.”

* * *

Jim read the report on the raid on the Swailers with satisfaction. They'd found diagrams of power plants, police stations, military bases, and Parliament, and a fuckton of bombs made from cow shit. The bombs were the most technologically advanced weapons, but there were swords and crossbows and clubs, too. Some of the Swailers had managed to escape, but the leaders were in custody. Jim would do everything he could to make sure the cunting bastards rotted in prison. It was their fault things were like this.

He smiled and nodded and clapped shoulders as people congratulated him and each other on a job well done. Bill stood off to the side, watching everyone with an infuriating little smile, like he was the one responsible for all this and was just too bloody modest to say so. Fuck him. He'd never been modest about anything in his entire life.

* * *

Jim checked the calendar one day and realized a week had passed since the date of the attack that had now never happened.

When Bill showed up at his door, Jim took one glance at him and turned back to his paperwork. 

“Go away, Bill,” he said, dismissive. He could tell Bill was taken aback and smiled. Good.

“Excuse me?” 

Jim sighed and looked back at him.

“Go away, Bill,” he repeated. “I'm really quite busy now; can't spare a moment.” Vindictive pleasure settled in him as surprise and anger crossed Bill's face.

“Jim, have you forgotten the deal?” Bill spoke with forced calm, irritation audible around the edges.

“No, but you seem to have,” replied Jim, standing up. “73 days, wasn't that what you said? Well, Bill, it's been longer than that, and you've still been taking liberties. Probably thinking I wouldn't notice. Well, guess what? I have, and it's over. Go piss off back to Hell or wherever it is you came from. You're finished.”

Of all the reactions Bill might have had, smiling wasn't one Jim expected. It was unsettling, and he couldn't help feel he'd fucked up somehow.

“Oh no, Jim,” said Bill, stepping forward and closing the door behind him. “I'm afraid you are very much mistaken. I told you you had 73 days to clear up that little debacle. I made no mention of a time limit for how long you owed me. Do you know why that is?”

Jim couldn't answer. Bill's eyes were locked on his, the coldest things Jim had ever seen. He started to say something, but all that came out was a faint groan.

“I'll tell you why,” Bill went on, moving closer. “It's because there isn't one. You're mine, Jimbo, until you die or I grow bored of your pathetic life.” His teeth were sharp. “So no, Jim, it's not over.”

“I-” Jim croaked. He tried again. “I want to go back. I'll deal with the whole clusterfuck, the terrorists, everything. Please, Bill; I can't do this anymore.”

“No can do.” Bill stepped around the desk to stand in front of Jim. “That time has passed.” He closed his eyes a moment and inhaled. “I think the fun is just beginning.”


End file.
